Why do hairdressers bother to ask?
I am an articulate, and indeed often times verbose, individual. I have two postgraduate degrees in communication related areas, a plethora of experience communicating complex instructions to people and getting results and more than that, a vast vocabulary.
However, boasting aside, when it comes to getting my hair cut I seem to turn into an inarticulate elective mute who is incapable of saying “ahh, no...”
All this is by way of saying, as you’ve probably guessed I have literally just come back from my latest hairdressing horror.
To put into context, I have curly hair. While this is not uncommon in the world, it seems that hairdressers who can cut curly hair are harder to find than the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Prior to my relocation to this side of the world I had a hairdresser in country NSW, who for ease of story we shall call Nicki. Nicki had curly hair herself and so understood basic things like when you cut wet curly hair, the hair will rise another 5cm when it is dry. However, one day while cutting my hair, Nicki casually announced that her marriage had broken down, her husband, it seems, was a violent pig of a man, and that she was returning to live with her parents in Sydney.
As I was not in Sydney at this time of my life, this was not good news and so I was torn between wanting to be supportive of her decision to reclaim her life and my need for a good hairdresser. Faced with needing to say something supportive but fearful that the only words to come out of my mouth would be motivated by vanity and selfishness I think I nodded mutely and mustered the most concerned look I could manage.
This led to what can only be described as a sort of one night stand approach to haircuts for many years. I gave the stylists (when did hairdressers become stylists?) one chance and if not happy would blow them off with the age worn “I’m just too busy right now…”
After several years in the wilderness of playing the hairdresser field I finally jagged one in Sydney about 2 months before I flew out. My last weekend in Sydney was spent in her company!
And so, to now. I’ve been in London now almost 7 months and have been hunting for a hairdresser who won’t bore me birko with small talk and can cut since.
My first “trim” experience was with a fairly scary woman who was heavily pierced and had purple hair from one of those chain store try hard trendy salons. When I told her what I wanted, she told me firmly “No. This is what I shall do.”
As she had a pair of sharp scissors quite close to my jugular by this stage I didn’t really feel I had any great bargaining power and so wisely acquiesced to her militant dictatorship approach to cutting. She gave me a loyalty card when I left, with her name on it, so I could come back to complete her tribute to Sade.
Anyway, so now that I’m back from my current round of travels I thought I’d do all that personal administrivia while I’m back in London. And so, hair cut.
I explained clearly to today’s Franco what I wanted by way of hair cut and foil colours. I honestly don’t know why I bothered, I should have just handed her a handful of cash and said “burn it in a corner”.
So, we went through the pretence of choosing foil colours (note use of term colours) and she went away to mix them and came back with one bowl.
“Interesting. This is not usual” my inner monologue says brightly.
“I guess they do it differently in the UK.”
As she started applying the one colour, I did politely say “ummm… I thought there were two colours…”
“This is better” was barked back at me in that way that made me slightly fearful for the rest of my hair.
So, one colour was applied, and then to the haircut.
As said, I have curly hair, and despite always going to hairdressers with my hair in its natural state I feel obliged to restate this to them after an incident several years ago with a hairdresser who, despite me saying clearly that I did not want one, cut me a fringe that has taken me a good 5 years to grow out.
So, I explained to Franco - curly hair… you need to cut it this way.
She listened and then did what she was always going to do, which was cut the bejesus out of it, straighten it and then spray it with some kind of shellac type substance that always makes hair feel like tumble weed.
As I sat watching myself in the mirror, while she worked her ‘magic’ and transformed what was previously normal looking hair into what can only be now described as looking like David Bowie playing the Goblin King in Labryinth.
Under normal circumstances I wouldn’t care - being able to count on one hand the number of times I’ve had a good haircut I’ve developed a fairly healthy respect for pony tails and the like, but one of my mates here has taken it upon himself to blame me personally for the large number of mullets he encountered when in Australian a decade ago.
And so now I’m faced with the reality that I’m going to have to come up with a series of damned good excuses to avoid him for a couple of months, at least until my current Nigel Tufnel look has grown a bit, or else I will never live it down!
However, boasting aside, when it comes to getting my hair cut I seem to turn into an inarticulate elective mute who is incapable of saying “ahh, no...”
All this is by way of saying, as you’ve probably guessed I have literally just come back from my latest hairdressing horror.
To put into context, I have curly hair. While this is not uncommon in the world, it seems that hairdressers who can cut curly hair are harder to find than the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Prior to my relocation to this side of the world I had a hairdresser in country NSW, who for ease of story we shall call Nicki. Nicki had curly hair herself and so understood basic things like when you cut wet curly hair, the hair will rise another 5cm when it is dry. However, one day while cutting my hair, Nicki casually announced that her marriage had broken down, her husband, it seems, was a violent pig of a man, and that she was returning to live with her parents in Sydney.
As I was not in Sydney at this time of my life, this was not good news and so I was torn between wanting to be supportive of her decision to reclaim her life and my need for a good hairdresser. Faced with needing to say something supportive but fearful that the only words to come out of my mouth would be motivated by vanity and selfishness I think I nodded mutely and mustered the most concerned look I could manage.
This led to what can only be described as a sort of one night stand approach to haircuts for many years. I gave the stylists (when did hairdressers become stylists?) one chance and if not happy would blow them off with the age worn “I’m just too busy right now…”
After several years in the wilderness of playing the hairdresser field I finally jagged one in Sydney about 2 months before I flew out. My last weekend in Sydney was spent in her company!
And so, to now. I’ve been in London now almost 7 months and have been hunting for a hairdresser who won’t bore me birko with small talk and can cut since.
My first “trim” experience was with a fairly scary woman who was heavily pierced and had purple hair from one of those chain store try hard trendy salons. When I told her what I wanted, she told me firmly “No. This is what I shall do.”
As she had a pair of sharp scissors quite close to my jugular by this stage I didn’t really feel I had any great bargaining power and so wisely acquiesced to her militant dictatorship approach to cutting. She gave me a loyalty card when I left, with her name on it, so I could come back to complete her tribute to Sade.
Anyway, so now that I’m back from my current round of travels I thought I’d do all that personal administrivia while I’m back in London. And so, hair cut.
I explained clearly to today’s Franco what I wanted by way of hair cut and foil colours. I honestly don’t know why I bothered, I should have just handed her a handful of cash and said “burn it in a corner”.
So, we went through the pretence of choosing foil colours (note use of term colours) and she went away to mix them and came back with one bowl.
“Interesting. This is not usual” my inner monologue says brightly.
“I guess they do it differently in the UK.”
As she started applying the one colour, I did politely say “ummm… I thought there were two colours…”
“This is better” was barked back at me in that way that made me slightly fearful for the rest of my hair.
So, one colour was applied, and then to the haircut.
As said, I have curly hair, and despite always going to hairdressers with my hair in its natural state I feel obliged to restate this to them after an incident several years ago with a hairdresser who, despite me saying clearly that I did not want one, cut me a fringe that has taken me a good 5 years to grow out.
So, I explained to Franco - curly hair… you need to cut it this way.
She listened and then did what she was always going to do, which was cut the bejesus out of it, straighten it and then spray it with some kind of shellac type substance that always makes hair feel like tumble weed.
As I sat watching myself in the mirror, while she worked her ‘magic’ and transformed what was previously normal looking hair into what can only be now described as looking like David Bowie playing the Goblin King in Labryinth.
Under normal circumstances I wouldn’t care - being able to count on one hand the number of times I’ve had a good haircut I’ve developed a fairly healthy respect for pony tails and the like, but one of my mates here has taken it upon himself to blame me personally for the large number of mullets he encountered when in Australian a decade ago.
And so now I’m faced with the reality that I’m going to have to come up with a series of damned good excuses to avoid him for a couple of months, at least until my current Nigel Tufnel look has grown a bit, or else I will never live it down!
I lived in Las Vegas the majority of my life, a city of high fashion and the utmost importance on physical appearance. People there color coordinate their lipstick to their sandals, put on earrings, and check their hair just to go to the mail box! I didn't have too many problems with hair dressers, I mean stylists, in Vegas. But then? Then I moved to Kentucky, land of the hicks (with all due respect), and have been going through hair stylists like mad. I finally gave up and just let my hair grow out... straight and bland, no color, no shape.
In Kentucky, there seem to be three choices for hairstyles. The most popular is the "poof". The entire aim here is to make the hair as big and fluffy as possible. The second style is an extremely short bob, either with a flip or a tuck. I call it the "low maintenance look". The third style isn't a style at all and is where I am now. I call it the "oh, to hell with it" look. *LOL*
Excellent read.
W
Yellow Brick Road
All will be well though. I'll buy a hat. It's spring here, surely the sun will come out soon necessitating a hat?!
And just so you know, I can't seem to access any of your pages. I get stuck in a loop. Not sure if it's user error or a technical glitch?
Movies and Life
I feel your pain, I also find going to the hairdressers quite traumatic. I have fine hair that I'm very conscious of and if I go to a new one (which is rare and only when I'm desperate), they always have to exclaim 'you have very fine hair don't you?' Do they think I don't know?!! It's like when they show me the back of my head, I can hardly say I hate it and they have to put the hair back on....
Good luck in your quest
"Wow, your hair is so healthy. It's almost too healthy. We'll fix that."
Too healthy?? What the... NO, DON'T FIX THAT!!!
*LOL*
Jane... not sure why my blog isn't working for you, all systems are go on my end. Maybe it's just a timing thing? Thanks for tryin' anyway!
W
Movies and Life
This post is a great start to the day
Movies and Life
Yellow Brick Road
I too am intrigued by hair that is too healthy. Isn't the point of our additive laden, vitamin addicted food stuffs to have shiny hair? BTW, curly hair doesn't shine. Hair shampoo advertisements shit me as the hair shown is always ironed to within an inch of its life.
Movies and Life
And like you and Seinfeld said, who can see the back of their head?
True words.....